


Born Damned

by joeysharku



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Orcs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 07:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeysharku/pseuds/joeysharku
Summary: The War of Wrath is over. The armies of Morgoth are shattered and scattered to the wind. In this first millennium of the new Age, anything is possible. Will the orcs find meaning in their new atheistic world, or will they be enslaved once more to the old powers? At the opposite ends of these fates stand two gods - Makar the Boldog, the spirit of brawling and god of orc-form, and Mairon the Necromancer, called Thû by his servants, whose terrible will no orc has ever challenged. It will take civil war, bloody betrayals, and unanswered prayers to resolve once and for all if orcs truly are born damned.





	Born Damned

The tremors finally stopped. 

Forty-two years of ceaseless warfare, the earthquake engines of Lungorthin the Pale, and the fall of Virhaka the Black had so wracked Arda that it shook like an orkess birthing quintuplets. By the end the orcs were saying that the elf-gods were murdering the earth entire to deny the First his rightful inheritance and Makar had thought that might indeed be so. Then the tremors finally stopped.

Makar bid his refugees make camp by the roaring sea that now split the Baland-harn into which he hiked. With just a little elevation he could see a new bay dividing the blue mountains, a jagged arrowhead as violent as the rest of the gods’ careless assault. As Makar climbed, stopping only to lift his squire Drûgû up jagged slopes, he wondered if Aulë spared even a single thought for the naugrim that surely drowned deep within their tunnels. He guessed not. If the earth-king loved his children would he not be with them now, risking life and even rebellion to protect them? Soon Makar stood upon a high peak and there looked into the West. Where once there had been leagues upon leagues of beautiful battlefields of every kind, now only heedless Ulmo reigned.

Makar spat.  _ Melkor be damned. _

Behind him Drûgû gasped when he too saw the rioting sea. “B-boss? Boldog?”

Makar let his eyes fall down the cracked mountains until they fell upon a small, dark smear in the valley below. There they were, the precious few he could save, huddling together in the ruin of an abandoned world. For a terrible moment Makar could imagine the waters rushing further and swallowing the pathetic survivors whole. Why had the Valar chosen only idle observation or cataclysmic force? Why had Melkor claimed a throne he could not defend? Why had  _ he _ entered the Music, abandoned Tulkas his singer, if only to flee at the end of the greatest battle his brawling spirit would ever see? 

Makar turned to Drûgû and even through his weeping eyes the orc saw Uncle Boldog, the Great Orc, a nine foot titan of strength and endurance and the only god that had ever loved his kind. The Boldog spoke in a voice like distant thunder, “the First is dead. The Battle is over.” Drûgû lost sight of the Boldog as his eyes darted in spiritual terror.  _ Ur-furzûk? The Maker? Dead?  _ It was nearly more than the poor orc could bear and he felt the sudden urge to throw himself from the peak. When the Boldog set his massive clawed hand down on Drûgû’s shoulder and squeezed, the urge passed like a troll’s thought.

Makar knelt and looked into Drûgû’s eyes until they focused calmly on his. “Now we can be free, little brother.”

 

{ (|) }

 

Mairon had saved nobody. Nobody had been left. Furongsithis, Gurôka, Langon  _ melkor? _ \- all dead. He had been in the deepest heart of Angband fighting in the final defenses and  _ saw _ them die. The Valar’s armies were merciless. Their divine artillery scoured the earth for leagues upon leagues so that not even worms could survive and when they purged Angband, blood poured down the chasms in boiling rivers. Mairon would surely have died as well if he hadn’t been ordered to surrender. 

_ Ordered. _

_ The Battle is  _ **_not_ ** _ over. _

Eonwë was haughty in his reproach, but there was predictably little insight in the fool’s words. “You have failed to uphold our most sacred duties, Mairon. You have taken up arms against the Eruhíni with intent to enslave them to the Malice of the Traitor. You shall be taken back to Valinor to hear your Doom.”

“I have and shall,” Mairon answered, his entire fana the picture of contrition. “Melkor -”

“Morgoth. Fëanor named him truly for all time and by Morgoth will you now call him.”

“Yes, of course. Morgoth.” What a petty magic, to think a slur could possibly circumscribe the Body of God! “Morgoth enchanted my will and turned it towards his heretical ends. Such crimes, Eonwë, you cannot possibly imagine. I must be judged and censured and damned!”

Eonwë’s face softened then, and after a long while he said, “I see you recognize the gravity of your trespasses. You have never lied to me, Mairon. If you vow by Song to return to Aman and stand for your crimes, I shall permit you to go unchained under your own power.”

So by Song did Mairon vow but the centuries under Melkor’s tutelage had increased his cunning beyond the ken of even Námo, the dreams of even Irmo. Yes, he vowed to return to Valinor and speak so eloquently of all his terrible crimes that they be felt anew for the Valar’s judgment. This satisfied Eonwë, who missed the various double-meanings and dark innuendo that made technically clear that Mairon would indeed return, but only after drowning Valinor with the blood of Eruhíni equal in number to those already made victims of Melkor. Eonwë left as ignorant as he had come and after a reasonable delay, Mairon fled east. With great wings he flew deep into Endor until he came to the Thorôbal that Melkor prepared long ago as a refuge. The land there was a gray and blasted waste. This mountain, unknown to all save Melkor and Mairon, had been Melkor’s sole sacred site. Within Angband he would have no other god before him but at the Thorôbal  _ he _ worshipped. 

“See how the fire flows endlessly, little blessing?” Melkor had asked when showing Mairon this masterpiece. “It is my testament of the Flame Imperishable, and by it shall I win out over the Traitor and His puppets.”

Mairon had believed it then. Looking upon it now, with Angband hollowed and Melkor  _ what? _ , Mairon knew it was only a volcano.

_ No. _

_ The Battle is not over. _

He would _force_ the Flame and the Void to honor their covenants with the Firstborn of God. He would _slaughter_ the Eruhíni to the last for daring to presume inheritance over their Music. He would _annihilate_ Valinor, _avenge?_ ** _NO_** rescue Melkor, and finally set Eä right. There would be no more resistance; there would be no more discord. 

But how?

Mairon looked across the desolate plains choking with ash and saw no life. His familiars were dead. Oromë’s hounds tore the werewolves to bloody shreds, leaping upon them three at a time so that the only thing the poor beasts could do was yelp. Varda’s maidens burnt the vampires to ash, dismissing their protests without a fair hearing. Even the balrogs, Knowers of Might, whom even Mairon had feared and respected, were crushed under the ruthless charge of Manwë’s heralds. He was alone. Though he could surely triumph over any one challenger if they be lesser than a Power, he could not hope to serve Melkor as he wished without armies. 

Then it came to him. Of course. He hadn’t spared them a single thought for more than thirty years but then they’d been little help in the war. Still, they would serve. Some  _ must _ have survived. That’s what they  _ did _ . 

Orcs. 

 

{ (|) }

 

The Boldog set Drûgû upon the new soil and bounded east, promising to return with news of the road ahead. Drûgû nodded dumbly at the god shrinking on the horizon and then returned to the starving refugees. Felda was waiting for him; Drûgû remembered when she had enough fat to hide her ribs. Now the yellow orkess was skin and bones, like a dead boggart. 

“Was, Drûg? What you see?”

What could he say? The only world they’d known -  fought for, bled for,  _ died _ for -  was gone? That the Maker Himself was dead? That He’d never slay the sun and moon and stars and give His children an unlit world to rejoice over forevermore? That everything they’d known and been promised were  _ lies _ ?

“Lotsa water,” Drûgû said, and tried to walk past her.

She followed. “Aye, watta, could see that well enough!” It was true. The Baland-harn had stretched the length of the continent unbroken and no orc had ever crossed their blue peaks. Now they were camped by the still roaring waters of a new bay. “What else you see?” Several of the others had gathered around them.

Drûgu couldn’t answer, not before big Zardû asked, “we bein’ pursued? Is it armies? Do they glow?” and pale Ugarít shouted, “all the gologs are dead! It’ll be our boys coming to bring us home!” and Felda prompted, gently, “was, Drûg? Was it?”

Drûgû swallowed his terrible dread and stammered, “j-just water.”

They didn't understand at first. Some muttered between themselves that the starvation must've finally eaten Drûgû's wits. Finally, Felda asked, "Drûg...  _ just _ watta?"

"Aye. Just water."

Felda moaned deeply and her legs collapsed like jelly. Ugarít was the next to see his meaning, and cried out, "ah! So Ur-furzûk wars with the usurpers still, even at the bottom of His seas!"

Zardû repeated "just water" to himself over and over as the others protested in confusion. Drûgû ignored them and answered Ugarít, "the Boldog says Ur-furzûk is dead."

The incomprehensible shock of Beleriand's sinking became both acute and irrelevant at this revelation. The orcs shouted in terrified ecstasy, as if in church at the fatal moment of execution. They tore at their pathetic rags and fell upon the earth naked, eating dust. The blasphemous words were carried like wildfire through the whole camp, and many tearful brawls broke out. At the core of it all, Ugarít glowed with rage.

"Lies! The Maker cannot be slain! He is the first son and true sun, the one and the all! He made the world to be His dwelling and without His kingship it would cease to be!"

"Cease to be! Cease to be!" Felda shouted at the taunting stars.

"The Boldog is  _ lying _ ," Ugarít spat. "Don't his quarrels with Thû the Lieutenant and Prince Kosomot prove he has ever been faithless to Ur-furzûk? He was last to be counted among the obedient gods and now tempts orcs away from their duty!"

"He came last because he came for us," Drûgû said softly. The absurdity of his words were dizzying. Were they really debating old boggas' tales?

"More lies! Listen to me!" Ugarít turned away from Drûgû and shouted at the insensible orcs twisting and shrieking in the gravel. "We have been deceived, have deserted our posts, and shall surely be damned if we don't rise up, go back, and turn ourselves over for judgment!"

The howls became so shrill that Drûgû could hear throats splitting into bloody ribbons. He couldn't guess what thought terrorized his mates most: the death of God, the damnation of deserting Him, or the horrible, shining armies of the usurpers. They'd all seen entire hosts exterminated like rats, arrows and spears falling upon them with impossible speed. In any case, it was clear they wouldn't be going anywhere. So Drûgû simply said, "it's just water."

Makar returned before the dawn to find the orcs in weeping piles, clinging to each other like boggarts in their cribs. Some were dead, having either taken a brawl too far or their own lives. Ugarít was still wandering the camp, trying with futility to rouse them to march west. Finally he found Drûgû alone, eyes dry and face pale. 

"Squire?" he asked. "What has happened?"

Drûgû shrugged and answered, "we were alone."

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter (really more of a prelude) is very short. Anxiously, I'm tempted to call it a sketch but I've justified it internally by saying it's setting the stage. Thoughts on this would be especially appreciated, especially especially regarding areas where further elaboration was desired. Thanks!


End file.
